Erron Black (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
erron_black) wrote2021-06-28 06:35 pm
erron_black) wrote2021-06-28 06:35 pm
thread starter for arthur morgan
Erron had a problem.
It was clear to him now sprawled out on the bed ever so welcomingly provided him by the proprietor of the Old Light Saloon, threadbare sheets itching him where he swung his arm out to flick the ashes from his cigarette onto the rotted out wood floor. His bright idea to travel further north in search of lucrative opportunities had been scuppered by ice and snow unabated by neither time nor patience — and he only possessed one of those things in spades. He told himself it was for the best to turn back while he was still ahead; cut his losses before they had the chance to cut into him instead. It was bad enough the man with the bear living in him could have been the end of the line.
An ignominious final destination for the likes of Erron Black — chewed up and shit out by a man eating grizzly bear in the ass end of nowhere. Unloved and unmourned; forgotten by time in the frozen wastes.
That's not what happened, but it could have. He'd not never been the brightest star in the night sky, but he could take a hint from lady luck better than most. There was a time to press and another to finesse. So it was that he'd sauntered back south to insinuate himself back into another robber baron's cortege; easy work, that, mean mugging on their dime after seeing just how much damage he could do. Easy, and dreadfully boring between bouts of baronial infighting. It wasn't long before he succumbed to wanderlust for the filth and the squalor of the streets of Saint Denis and, rather more importantly, the cutthroat zeal inherent to the gangs that carved out a living there instead.
Where the robber barons sat at their desks scratching out letters of great import while everyone else did their work for them, up to and including himself, the city gangs were vibrant vipers nests of volatility and they always had dirty work to be done they couldn't be seen doing. Erron didn't care much for either of their political machinations, but neither of them thought he was smart enough to understand on account of his country upbringing anyhow. They were wrong, of course, but that was fine by him if it kept them from their campaigning and he could surreptitiously read everything they left lying around. Everything was going well until it wasn't.
There weren't many things Erron wouldn't do for money. He refused on principle to waste his time on anything less than large sums, preferably upfront and all at once, but he'd settle for cumulative on pain of death if his employer got any funny ideas. It was just good business sense. He wasn't without his quirks, though. Namely, his aversion to women not cut out for him and children. It wasn't that he was too high and mighty for it — he could claim no kind of moral high ground.
It was that they made him think things he didn't want to think; feel things he didn't want to feel.
Erron had been smack dab in the middle of rousting a business owner into compliance when he caught sight of tiny, slender feet at the staircase landing leading up to the man’s living quarters. He wasn’t so naive as to believe none of the people he terrorized didn’t have families, didn’t have nobody what cared about them, but he was careful, he was precise. And that’s why the only cracked teeth in his knuckles that night had been his employer’s — with many more to follow as the rage in him burnt white hot and inconsolable. He bid Saint Denis adieu at the bottom of a bottle with a pair of stinging, split knuckles and a vicious disposition. All the colors of his recollection from there running together misery red, flush with time and luck and money and not a whole hell of a lot else. He gambled and drank and caroused with other ne’er-do-wells in Van Horn; fought bare-fisted down in the mud for entertainment and money with the miners of Annesburg.
He wondered, as his traitor mind was wont to do in the quiet moments, whether the man with the bear living in him ever made it to that cabin by the lake.
It became ridiculous after a point — pacing along the river like a caged animal. He didn’t know quite why, but thoughts of Arthur had become ever more ubiquitous and alluring since the incident. Even now, his eyes drifted closed and his nostrils flared at the fragments of memories he treasured most, held so close to his chest not even the very man in question might suspect. Erron fished out the gold pocket watch he’d collected at the end of a grueling card game the night before and cracked his eyes to inspect the time; the ornate hands rapidly closing in on three-thirty ’o’ clock in the morning. He could reach the lake by sunrise.
So it was decided.
Erron hauled his aching body astride his beloved blood bay thoroughbred mare with an affectionate scratch of her dark mane, her saddlebags loaded down with all his winnings and worldly possessions which weren’t cached, and set about the lake in the dead of night. The number of souls out there with him were few and wary, clutching the grips of their firearms tighter at the sight of a lone stranger on the road that late at night and so very close to Van Horn. He was clean shaven and well dressed at the very least albeit a bit bruised and disheveled in a charcoal grey vest over top a black button up with matching trousers.
If he listened hard enough in the gloom, he could just about hear their sighs of relief when they passed him on by without incident. Soon, he was the only soul cutting through the dark.
He must have dozed in the saddle a good while because, with a sharp breath through his nose, he looked up and suddenly became aware of the sun having begun to rise above the horizon. Sugarlips flicked a curious ear in his direction as he stretched and adjusted himself in the saddle, but otherwise continued on down the road looping around the lake at her leisure. A thin plume of grey smoke rose from the chimney of the cabin situated at the edge of the water ahead. Erron leaned back in the saddle with a minute squeeze of his thighs to halt his mare’s stride a good distance away, the hand not on the reins dangling deceptively casually nearby his holstered revolver in case the occupant wasn’t who he was expecting it to be, and let out an ear splitting whistle.
Sugarlips held steady at the sound, familiar enough to hold her ground until he indicated otherwise, but chomped noisily at the bit beneath him nonetheless at the prospect of anticipatory flight.
It was clear to him now sprawled out on the bed ever so welcomingly provided him by the proprietor of the Old Light Saloon, threadbare sheets itching him where he swung his arm out to flick the ashes from his cigarette onto the rotted out wood floor. His bright idea to travel further north in search of lucrative opportunities had been scuppered by ice and snow unabated by neither time nor patience — and he only possessed one of those things in spades. He told himself it was for the best to turn back while he was still ahead; cut his losses before they had the chance to cut into him instead. It was bad enough the man with the bear living in him could have been the end of the line.
An ignominious final destination for the likes of Erron Black — chewed up and shit out by a man eating grizzly bear in the ass end of nowhere. Unloved and unmourned; forgotten by time in the frozen wastes.
That's not what happened, but it could have. He'd not never been the brightest star in the night sky, but he could take a hint from lady luck better than most. There was a time to press and another to finesse. So it was that he'd sauntered back south to insinuate himself back into another robber baron's cortege; easy work, that, mean mugging on their dime after seeing just how much damage he could do. Easy, and dreadfully boring between bouts of baronial infighting. It wasn't long before he succumbed to wanderlust for the filth and the squalor of the streets of Saint Denis and, rather more importantly, the cutthroat zeal inherent to the gangs that carved out a living there instead.
Where the robber barons sat at their desks scratching out letters of great import while everyone else did their work for them, up to and including himself, the city gangs were vibrant vipers nests of volatility and they always had dirty work to be done they couldn't be seen doing. Erron didn't care much for either of their political machinations, but neither of them thought he was smart enough to understand on account of his country upbringing anyhow. They were wrong, of course, but that was fine by him if it kept them from their campaigning and he could surreptitiously read everything they left lying around. Everything was going well until it wasn't.
There weren't many things Erron wouldn't do for money. He refused on principle to waste his time on anything less than large sums, preferably upfront and all at once, but he'd settle for cumulative on pain of death if his employer got any funny ideas. It was just good business sense. He wasn't without his quirks, though. Namely, his aversion to women not cut out for him and children. It wasn't that he was too high and mighty for it — he could claim no kind of moral high ground.
It was that they made him think things he didn't want to think; feel things he didn't want to feel.
Erron had been smack dab in the middle of rousting a business owner into compliance when he caught sight of tiny, slender feet at the staircase landing leading up to the man’s living quarters. He wasn’t so naive as to believe none of the people he terrorized didn’t have families, didn’t have nobody what cared about them, but he was careful, he was precise. And that’s why the only cracked teeth in his knuckles that night had been his employer’s — with many more to follow as the rage in him burnt white hot and inconsolable. He bid Saint Denis adieu at the bottom of a bottle with a pair of stinging, split knuckles and a vicious disposition. All the colors of his recollection from there running together misery red, flush with time and luck and money and not a whole hell of a lot else. He gambled and drank and caroused with other ne’er-do-wells in Van Horn; fought bare-fisted down in the mud for entertainment and money with the miners of Annesburg.
He wondered, as his traitor mind was wont to do in the quiet moments, whether the man with the bear living in him ever made it to that cabin by the lake.
It became ridiculous after a point — pacing along the river like a caged animal. He didn’t know quite why, but thoughts of Arthur had become ever more ubiquitous and alluring since the incident. Even now, his eyes drifted closed and his nostrils flared at the fragments of memories he treasured most, held so close to his chest not even the very man in question might suspect. Erron fished out the gold pocket watch he’d collected at the end of a grueling card game the night before and cracked his eyes to inspect the time; the ornate hands rapidly closing in on three-thirty ’o’ clock in the morning. He could reach the lake by sunrise.
So it was decided.
Erron hauled his aching body astride his beloved blood bay thoroughbred mare with an affectionate scratch of her dark mane, her saddlebags loaded down with all his winnings and worldly possessions which weren’t cached, and set about the lake in the dead of night. The number of souls out there with him were few and wary, clutching the grips of their firearms tighter at the sight of a lone stranger on the road that late at night and so very close to Van Horn. He was clean shaven and well dressed at the very least albeit a bit bruised and disheveled in a charcoal grey vest over top a black button up with matching trousers.
If he listened hard enough in the gloom, he could just about hear their sighs of relief when they passed him on by without incident. Soon, he was the only soul cutting through the dark.
He must have dozed in the saddle a good while because, with a sharp breath through his nose, he looked up and suddenly became aware of the sun having begun to rise above the horizon. Sugarlips flicked a curious ear in his direction as he stretched and adjusted himself in the saddle, but otherwise continued on down the road looping around the lake at her leisure. A thin plume of grey smoke rose from the chimney of the cabin situated at the edge of the water ahead. Erron leaned back in the saddle with a minute squeeze of his thighs to halt his mare’s stride a good distance away, the hand not on the reins dangling deceptively casually nearby his holstered revolver in case the occupant wasn’t who he was expecting it to be, and let out an ear splitting whistle.
Sugarlips held steady at the sound, familiar enough to hold her ground until he indicated otherwise, but chomped noisily at the bit beneath him nonetheless at the prospect of anticipatory flight.
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The rest of the winter was rough, but he managed to get by without resorting to the temptation of devouring domestic animals. The money he'd gotten thanks to the legendary bison allowed him a bow and some ammo for his pistol, along with some new clothes. He remained in the cave though, determined to give it until the next season to ensure no Pinkertons raised their ugly heads seeking one Arthur Morgan of the former Van Der Linde gang.
Finally, the thaw came, and he left that cave, bought a horse with what little money he had left, and rode with great hope toward the Veteran's homestead.
He was surprised but pleased to find no squatters in the place, though it had been looted of all food and if any valuables were to be found, they were gone as well. After he cleaned up the place, Arthur discovered a loose floorboard, and a journal Hamish kept, along with a bit of money and a few other items of worth that were missed. He spent his days hunting, fishing, riding, living once more, living a life he'd longed for before it all fell apart.
Three nights a month, he disappeared into the hills, foraged and ran as a bear, the moon forcing the change, but his mind remaining as it always was. Still, the lack of company hurt. Percival, his massive black stallion, was nice to have around-wonderful to ride a horse again-but not much for conversation. Around the moon, it seemed worse. Like part of him was left back at that cabin by Lake Isabella. And he was ashamed to say some nights he thought back on the feel of the other man and hated himself for pining for a ghost.
It was the morning before the first night of the full moon and he was prepping breakfast for himself when a sharp whistle drew him away. He frowned and grabbed his gun. Wouldn't be the first time the damned Murfrees came around...
He stepped out onto the porch, dressed in only pants and suspenders, and he nearly dropped his gun as he stared at the familiar man.
Arthur looked different, a few months of good eating and good life had been kind to him, having gained weight and muscle, back to how he looked before the TB drained him. Also growing a goatee now, to hide the notable chin scars, clean shaved on the sides, hair loose and long.
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Erron returned his hand to his lap and nudged his mare forward with his heels for a better look. Sugarlips obliged with a flick of her tail and a low, rumbling nicker of acknowledgement of the stranger in her midst. It hadn't struck Erron at the time, but upon closer inspection it was clear as day Arthur had been unwell back then. The sun had done away with all that pallor about his face, the skin around his eyes no longer faintly bruised as it'd been before neither. There would be no counting his ribs now even if Erron fancied trying.
If Erron was being honest with himself, which he didn't like to do too often, the man looked better off than he did. The worst of his most recent blurry bareknuckle bouts had all healed over short of a few stubborn bruises here and there gone an ugly yellow and green. It'd been a real chore trying to shave over the one along his jaw from a lucky strike for the longest time, but he'd consoled himself with the fact the miserable bastard who got one in on him probably starved to death from his.
"Mister Sinclair, I presume?" He greeted with a grin like the cat who got the cream once his mare came to a halt just off the porch, her warm brown eyes bright and brimming with curiosity now that it seemed safe. Sugarlips would go and stick her snout straight in Arthur's astonished face for a sniff if he let her, he knew from experience, so he kept a short hold of her reins on the dismount. "Y'done well fer yerself out here, so it would seem."
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He then took in the man from bruises and clothes dusty from his journey. He looked tired, bit rumpled and sporting an exhaustion he knew well. Clean shaven as he always tried to be. Even from a couple yards, his heightened senses picked up the scent of the road, exhaustion, cigarette smoke and his own musk.
Erron smelled like heaven. Arthur dropped his gun and closed the distance, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him in for a deep kiss without a word. He tasted like heaven too.
When he broke, he cradled Erron's face, chuckling, the smell and taste of coffee on the werebear's lips, "Took your damn time." he breathed.
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He'd been more careful since their ill-fated adventure in the mountains; shepherding her back down the treacherous trail through wolf and grizzly bear country had learned him good. Sugarlips, sweet-natured and ladylike as she was, never knew enough to forgive him in the first place.
Erron thought to be glib at the affected look in Arthur's eye when his attention pivoted back onto him. "You act like you seen a —"
His heart stuttered in his chest as the gun slipped from Arthur's fingers and clattered onto the floorboards, forgotten in haste as he advanced, and they were kissing and it was good. It had been too long since the last time something felt so good that wasn't bad for him. A lot of things felt good in a bad way; the sort of slow poison he went back to time and time again just to quiet the demons in the back of his mind — the beast that got to squirming around in his belly 'til he couldn't take it anymore.
"If I'd known you were fixin' to be this hospitable I might a come sooner." Erron licked the taste of him from his lips and swallowed, the knot of his throat seeming to stick a moment where it'd run dry. He'd reached up and grasped Arthur by the ribs at some point, his fingers no longer slotting into the subtle divots there like they had before. In his mind's eye, they were wrapped up in each other under the furs again, and it occurred to him just how tired he'd been then.
How tired he was now.
It'd been the best sleep he'd gotten in years.
"Y'miss me, handsome?"
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When he drew a shuddering breath and withdrew enough to look at him again, he laughed, "Christ it's good to see you!" he kissed him briefly again before allowing himself to let go. "You look dead on your feet, come on, you can put Sugarlips out back with Percival, I'll get yea some coffee."
The small enclosure wasn't really built for more than one horse but it'd do for short term, and Percival, as large as he was, was stoic and accepted the company of the mare without complaint.
Arthur poured a second cup of coffee for himself and a new one for Erron, taking a seat on the porch with him when he finished setting his mare up.
"You just passin' through or aimin' to stay awhile?" he asked outright
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Strange, and good, but he reckoned even rattlesnakes must have enjoyed them some friendliness on occasion, or there wouldn't be so damn many of them.
Arthur's hands were warm on his face in the crisp morning air, the texture of the callouses along his palms and fingers peculiarly soothing. The eagerness with which he leaned in for another taste of his lips told him he'd have done the same sooner or later if Arthur hadn't, and that didn't trouble him nearly as much as he thought it might. "This place been good to you," he remarked. "No more rootin' around in the snow fer you, that's for damn sure."
It took Erron a while to sweet talk his mare into sidling up next to the ink black stallion in the enclosure, her nostrils flared wide with her chin raised, ears flicking back and forth. The stallion, for his part, merely observed a while with a ponderous disposition before continuing to eat off the hay bale in front of him. Squirrelly and uncertain as his beloved lady could be, she rarely turned down an invitation to feast. Halfway through removing the majority of her tack, he leaned forward and heaved a great big sigh of relief into her neck, listened idly to the sound of her grinding hay between her teeth for a bit before resuming his work.
He returned to the porch with a pair of large leather saddle bags slung over his shoulder, which he unceremoniously dropped next to the chair he collapsed into in favor of the cup of coffee Arthur offered. "Them degenerates over in Van Horn'd be awful grateful if they never saw my ass again, I can tell ya that much," Erron replied over the rim of his cup before partaking in a graciously long pull. Nobody brewed coffee quite so smooth as those that lived off the land, and after months of overpriced saloon swill it was no wonder at all that his spirits were lifted.
"Jack 'o' diamonds is a hard card t'play," he chuckled and stretched out his legs 'til he was damn near lying in his seat, smug as the day was long, and twice as confident.
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"Trouble in Van Horn huh? Seems that place is quite filled with it" he chuckled, sipping his coffee and watching the other man spread out. He was such a pretty sight. Arthur found himself wanting to kiss him, run his fingers through his hair...ride him until they collapsed...Maybe later.
"Well, tonight and the next couple are the full moon so you'll have the place to yourself so make yourself at home."
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Looking out at it now with a hot cup of coffee in his hand, soft morning sunbeams setting the dew to twinkling, he could see perfectly well how a man like Arthur could get used to the quiet life.
"Wouldn't've gone if I weren't lookin' fer it. It's not like that fish head stew a theirs is anythin' to write home about. What else they got but trouble? Lice?" Erron cleared his throat and swiftly added with utmost sincerity: "I don't got lice. I barely got more trouble than what I come with. The sons a bitches oughtta be ashamed of themselves."
If Erron had found himself frustrated and disappointed by the monotonous lethargy of Van Horn with as foul a temper as he'd brought along with him, it was nothing to the misfortune of Arthur being gone by nightfall. It was only by the grace of his confusion that he was able to keep it from his voice. "Where you harin' off to?"
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"Van Horn was actually the last town I set foot in before it all went to hell for me." he snorted "Damn shootout with Pinkertons." He drank slowly from his mug, enjoying the brew, and the view as he'd enjoyed for a few weeks now.
"On full moon I can't shift back to being human, forces me into being a bear, so instead of trying to squeeze myself into the cabin and wait it out, I roam the woods. Can forage a lot, make sure no cougars about neither." he said "Can come with me, I keep my head during it, but I ain't gonna be much for conversation as I can't talk."
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"Pinkertons, eh? I don't cotton to them. They got ten dollar hats on five cent heads — and they lie like rugs." His contempt was apparent in the confrontational tenor of his voice, the derisive curl of his lip. "Least I'm honest 'bout what I do."
Erron crossed his legs at the ankle and sipped from his cup with a contemplative hum at the predicament Arthur presented. It was a damn sight more casual than he felt; relief a tangible presence working knots of tension loose all throughout his body. "Followed after you before," he remarked after some time. "Reckon it'd be a good opportunity to learn the lay of the land."
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Arthur chuckled, "If you wanna follow my furry ass around all night ain't gonna stop yea, though of course don't need to remind you to come armed. Lot of creatures in these hills that are meaner than me"
He finished his coffee and set his cup aside, coming over to Erron and picking up his hat from his head, having a look at it. He still hadn't gotten a new one of his own. He'd given his father's old black gambler to John before they parted and while he'd tried a few on when they went shopping for his clothes, none felt comfortable like that old thing.
"So, how long you gonna stay out here before carrying on?" he asked, plopping the hat on his head and having a feel of it. Smelled strongly of the other man.
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Knee high to a grasshopper and already a disobedient devil of a child, as his ma was so very keen to remind him whenever she was around, but especially now that she wasn’t.
What did Arthur get up to when he couldn’t live as a man? What sorts of thoughts ran through his mind in his wanderlust? What did he know that no ordinary man could ever hope to?
“Question ain’t whether they’re meaner n’you. It’s whether they’re meaner than me — and I reckon they don’t make ‘em any meaner out here than they do where I come from. Ain’t nobody and nothin’ nice and soft where I come from,” he murmured, swirling the last swallow of his coffee in his cup just to avoid having to look at himself before he knocked it back. Arthur made a mean cup of coffee all right; no bitter sediment at the back of his throat but his own bile.
The nicer parts of Ambarino might as well have been the garden of eden by his estimation. Arthur couldn’t have chosen more wisely, easy as it was even for someone such as himself to be gentled by the beauty of it. He didn’t so much as stir at the creak of wood or the soft susurration of cloth beside him; the morning light on his eyelids darkening as Arthur shifted to stand in front of him. Erron blinked up at him, his hand reflexively raising to rake through his hair as the old black stalker hat he’d taken to wearing for years was lifted up and off. It was nothing special, not really; he couldn’t even recall where he’d come by it now.
He hadn’t never been much for personal touches beyond his arsenal neither, but boredom encouraged creativity in him and at some point he’d taken to decorating the band with spent rounds to mark occasions where he’d been anything but.
“Ain’t fixin’ to go nowhere no time soon...” Erron trailed off at a sudden and unexpected loss of words, uncertain where to even begin trying to convey why not, gaped like a goddamn guppy for a beat before giving up. He licked his lips and changed the subject: “Brought ya somethin’.”
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"Good to know" he smirked, happy to have Erron's company, in general, and looking forward to when they could share a bed again. Maybe later, before the moon.
Arthur took the hat off-smelt nice, but felt weird, not a fit for him-and set it back on the other's head. "A present?" he chuckled "What in the hell for?" he wasn't much for gifts, figuring the money could be used elsewhere or whatever the item was was too extravagant.
"Yourself is nice enough ya know. But okay what is it?" he asked
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“I got manners,” Erron grumped beneath the brim of his newly returned hat, adjusted it to rest further back on his crown before leaning over the side of his chair to root through his saddlebags. “I wipe my feet, wash my face, and clean my plate. Just don’t tell nobody or they’ll get the wrong idea. I might be respectable, but I ain’t no dandy gentleman frettin’ over their ascot neither.”
He’d been more than a little drunk when it came time to pack for his journey, resulting in a haphazard pile of miscellany every which way, but he’d taken care to wrap the glass jar in one of his shirts and stow it away in a compartment where he wouldn’t have a sticky mess on his hands later. The sight of the thing on the shelf in the general store of Saint Denis had made him laugh, reminded him fondly of his encounter with the man with the bear living in him, and he’d bought it on a whim and carried it with him ever since. Even now, after so long, he chuckled when he unwrapped it and held it up to the light. “I reckon you’ll like this a damn sight better.”
The honey contained within cast golden rays along the porch in the morning sun, interrupted only by the shadow of the sliver of honeycomb just thin enough to clear the corked circumference of the jar.
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As for pride, he didn't put much stock in it. Too many folk died for it. He didn't care if he was seen as some dumb country boy. Either they left him alone, or if they didn't, he punched them until they did.
"Okay okay tough man." Arthur laughed, watching, peering over his shoulder as he dug through his bag, wondering what the other man could have possibly-
Oh.
Arthur looked at the precious gold-filled jar, then carefully took it. Not so much as a hairline crack in it, filled with delicious sweetness.
"You rode all the way up here with this just bumping about in your bag?" he smiled, cupping the other man's face, "What a gift. Thank you darlin'" he pressed a kiss against the man's forehead.
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There hadn’t been many problems that couldn’t be resolved in an instant with one quick muzzle flash back then, but then he’d done gone and hared off into brambles and the briars and gotten himself ensnared in the entanglements of others. The shots he didn’t take were always the ones that haunted him in the end — and the man with the bear living in him was no different. It came back to him all at once with Arthur’s hand on his face, kissing him in a way he couldn’t recall ever having been kissed before by anyone. Erron had tried in his sleepless nights to think of Arthur in that stirring way which made his blood quicken in his veins and run south, tried to recapture the heat and the passion of the thing.
Erron’s traitor mind lingered on dozing for what must have been half the night pressed up against him instead, the taste of smoke sweet in his mouth and throat, their skin sticky with shared warmth beneath the furs. A rare splinter of peace out of a lifetime of violence and cruelty buried so deep, he was beginning to suspect it’d never come out.
“Ain’t nothin’...” Last time he’d had occasion to say something like that been when he was a boy, cringing away from gratitude to stare at his dirty toes and wish more than anything he had shoes to fidget with like some of others. Erron reached out to hook his fingers under the waistband of Arthur’s trousers and tugged him closer, close enough for him to press his cheek to the soft curve of Arthur’s belly just above his hip. Arthur’s skin was pleasantly cool in the crisp morning air. “How much time y’reckon we got?”
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He didn’t know, not until he saw him ride up just a little while ago, but he did now. He loved Erron, if he’d ever say it aloud, maybe not. However, he knew what he had with the man was special as anything he’d had with Mary. No commitments, no fear of old age, their eternities could be shared together, while also going about life as they wanted to. Erron was a wanderer after all, he knew that life, and Arthur didn’t expect to tie him to him. If he saw him occasionally throughout the years, that’d be enough.
The gift was not only appreciated for what it was-deliciousness that he’d savor on toast or just the occasional spoonful-but also that it came from Erron, that he thought of him when he bought it.
Arthur held the jar to his chest as Erron pulled him close, feeling the prickle of stubble tickle his stomach. He stroked his fingers through the man’s dark hair, grinning at the question.
“Until sunset. Want to fool around?” He asked, fingers dipping down the other’s collar to his back, caressing the skin.
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Time marched, and so did Erron Black.
No point in turning back just to retread old tracks.
That's what he told himself anyway, if only to curb the worst of his impulses, the ones which inconvenienced him the most in the end. It'd always been a dangerous unknown, lying with another man, and while that thrilled him in the moment he'd never lain with the same one twice. Never felt the need, the impulse, to linger nor return once he departed. Arthur was different. Arthur had nettled him good, smashed the mold, offered him something he coveted enough to snarl and snap at his own hands.
Arthur's touch made the fine hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end, spread throughout the whole of his body in one great shiver. Erron reached up to remove his hat and set it aside with his free hand while he coiled his arm around Arthur's thigh to grasp at it with the other. Behind closed eyes, they were back in that cabin again, tangled up in one another in the silence and isolation of the mountains. He scrubbed his face across the soft expanse of Arthur's belly, filled his lungs with the familiar scent of his skin, breathed out all his burdens into the groove of his hip.
Erron grinned, wolfish, his blood quickening with excitement at the memories Arthur's question evoked in him then. Let it hang in the air a while, long enough to taste in his mouth, on his tongue. It tasted like Arthur pressing him down into the mattress, the weight of him just enough to steal his breath with each writhing thrust, just enough to make him have to work for it, to feel alive. Erron sunk his teeth around the jut of Arthur's hip with a groan that sounded an awful lot more like a growl, his arm cinching tight around the meat of his thigh. A sharp, grinding nip of blunt white teeth.
"I reckon I wanna roughhouse."
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"Roughhouse huh?"
He gave his hair a hard tug, leaning down to try and catch him for a kiss, but stood upright again as he almost dropped the jar. He clutched it more tightly, bumping his knee against Erron's chest to shake him off.
"Hey! Let me put this down first you horny bastard!" he laughed again, pulling away to bring it inside and set it on the counter.
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He was dimly aware he must have looked like hell in comparison, bruised and battered and worn down by wanderlust and road dust as he was, but Arthur didn't seem to mind it none. He'd only just barely brushed the tips of his fingers against Arthur's neck in anticipation of a kiss when Arthur jerked back and squeezed the jar closer to his chest. "Now, what did I tell you?” He chuckled with a look eerily reminiscent of the cat who got the cream on his face. “My lips might be sweet, but they ain’t sweeter n’that."
Erron, being the wicked man that he was and always would be, leaned right on back down and peppered the soft of his belly with kisses until Arthur saw fit to raise his knee in an effort to prise him loose. He took the liberty of a mouthful of Arthur’s navel with him, teeth dragging gently across his skin before he was well and truly bereft. “Told you so,” Erron called after him as he stomped into the cabin to secure his prize. A moment of indignation later it occurred to him to inquire: “What y’mean ‘you horny bastard’ anyhow? Yer the one that asked!”
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"I can smell your arousal from here, don't be givin' me that." he reprimanded, setting the jar down safely and returning to the porch and giving Erron's hair another caress through before swinging a leg over and sitting in the other man's lap, pressing close and giving his jaw a kiss.
"Lord how I missed you" he breathed. Erron smelled of the road and of dust and probably could use a bath and some decent food and sleep, but he was perfect to him.
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A deeper, darker curiosity was in the lack of alarm at being pinned down in his seat by a man he suspected strong enough to tear his head clean off his shoulders if he was of a mood to. How it made his heart race in his chest not with thoughts of danger, but with excitement. Erron licked his lips, his breath hitching slightly in his chest at the satisfying rasp of Arthur's whiskers along his neck, the warmth of his lips on skin tender still from the lucky sonuvabitch in Annesburg. The tip of Arthur's nose was cool against his cheek, from his own breath and the crisp morning air both.
"Y'been thinkin' 'bout me, Arthur?" Erron's head lolled back against his shoulders with nary a whisper of a rustle from the part of him that got to hissing and squaring up about exposing his throat. His fingers didn't quite slot into the divots between Arthur's ribs the same way as the first time, he noticed, the knobs of his spine less prominent along the palm of his hand.
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"Mmhm, a lot more than I care to admit" he said, suckling his exposed throat, the submissive gesture making him all the more needy for him.
Arthur settled comfortably in his lap, shifting foreword enough to feel Erron beneath him. His fingers curled into his hair again, tugging lightly as he scraped his teeth along his skin.
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No other men neither, but that was just a fact of life.
Erron didn't like to think about the times he took himself to hand; how he couldn't never bring himself off until he went back to being tangled up with Arthur in a too small bed instead of fucking. How even now it made him swell to attention and buck up for friction til' the chair creaked beneath them.
It'd been too long a dry spell, that's all.
"You touch yerself? Make a mess thinkin' of me?" Erron raked blunt fingernails down either side of Arthur's spine none too gently and squeezed his ass through his britches. "I make y'wanna be a little wild, Arthur?"
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"More than I can count." he confessed, tugging his hair harder. "Ain't the thought of anyone but you gets me wild no more..." he breathed, meeting Erron's lips for a kiss, great need in the gesture, teeth and tongue too.
What was worse was it was the full moon, when all was heightened and his hunger was at a peak.
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erron both likes *and* dislikes yearning for basic human affection
hehe
my original tag got flung into the void and i am a murderous salt mine rn
big rip :<
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arthur and mary sittin' in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g
lmao you know marston would have done that
shattered dreams, shattered dreams for *erryone* :{
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my god, these two fools
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"hahahaha we're all going to hell," casually chortled every outlaw in the history of ever.
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